Finding his way back onto Hurst Street, Kiley ducked into the first bar he found. He ordered a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 and a glass from an Australian with cropped red hair and carried his drink over to a seat near the window, where, taking his time over his beer, he could think again about what he was doing and watch the couples strolling by outside, holding hands.
When he went back to the bar, the barman greeted him as though they were old friends. ‘Ready for another? Kronenbourg, right?’
Kiley shook his head. ‘You know a place called Kicks?’
‘Kicks? No, I don’t think so. What kind of a place is it?’
‘It’s a club.’
‘No, sorry.’ The barman shook his head and two gold rings danced in the lobe of his left ear. ‘Wait up, though, I’ll ask.’
‘Thanks.’
Inside a few minutes, he was back. ‘You’re in luck. Tina says it’s off the underpass near the library. Paradise Circus. Some name, huh? Just take a right out of here and follow your nose.’
‘Okay,’ Kiley said. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Drop back later. I’ll keep one cold for you.’
Kiley nodded and turned away, the limp in his right leg barely noticeable as he crossed towards the door.
The steps led down below several lanes of fast-moving traffic, the subway itself tiled and surprisingly clean, the muted stink of urine cut through with disinfectant and the smoky-sweet drift of petrol fumes. Discarded newspapers and fast-food wrapping clotted here and there in corners, but not so much.
He followed round the slow curve of the arcade, a faint, accented clip from his heels. Several small restaurants were open and as yet, largely empty; shopfronts were barred and shuttered across. Forty, fifty yards more and there it was facing him, the name in green neon over the top of a bright pink door. More fuchsia than mere pink. The door itself was closed, windows either side discreet with frosted glass. Posters gave some idea of what to expect inside, a smiling mostly naked woman spilling out of her leopard-skin bra, Mel B twinned with Lara Croft. Alongside the licensing details above the door was a sign: ‘PLEASE NOTE THIS IS A GENTLEMENS ONLY CLUB.’
Kiley was surprised there wasn’t a doorman outside, muscles threatening the seams of his rented suit. No bell to ring, he pushed at the centre of the door and it swung slowly back, inviting him into a pool of tinted violet light. A sharp-faced blonde greeted him from inside a kiosk to his right and treated him to a smile that would have had no trouble cutting glass.
‘Good evening, sir. Are you a member?’ And when Kiley shook his head, ‘Membership fee is fifty pounds. That includes your first night’s admission. We take Visa,’ she added helpfully. ‘American Express.’
Heavy velvet curtains shielded the interior of the club itself. The sounds of music, muffled, seventies disco but with a different beat.
‘Suppose I just want to pay for tonight?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Look, the thing is…’ Kiley moving closer, trying on the charm. As well try to charm an anaconda. ‘… there’s a girl, I think she works here. Adina.’
‘We have no Adina.’
‘I just wanted to check, you know. As long as she’s working then-’
‘We have no Adina.’
‘I knew her, in London.’
But now she was looking past his shoulder, maybe she’d pressed some warning buzzer, Kiley didn’t know, but when he turned there was his doorman, two of them in fact, the Lennox Lewis twins.
‘Is there a problem here?’
‘No, no problem.’
‘’Cause if there’s a problem we can talk about it outside.’ One spoke, the other didn’t, his voice a soft mix of Caribbean and Brummie.
‘He was asking about one of the girls,’ said the blonde.
They moved towards him; Kiley stood his ground. ‘Sir, please, why don’t we just step outside?’ Polite. Threateningly polite.
‘Look,’ Kiley said. ‘Suppose I pay the membership fee and-?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid membership’s closed. Now if we can step outside.’
Kiley shrugged. The two men exchanged glances; the silent one pulled the door open and the talker escorted Kiley through.
Wind rattled an empty food tray along one side of the underpass. The man was taller than Kiley by three or four inches, heavier by some forty pounds.
‘You not from round here.’
Kiley shook his head.
‘In town for business?’
‘Something like that.’
The man held out his hand. ‘No hard feelings, huh? Why not try somewhere else?’ His grip was swift and strong.
‘Look,’ Kiley said, stepping back. ‘I wonder if you’d take a look at this?’
He had scarcely reached inside the lapel of his coat when a fist caught him low, beneath the heart. Before he could touch the ground with his knees, two hands seized him and swung him round. The brickwork alongside the club door closed on him fast. As he buckled and started to slide, another blow struck him in the kidneys and finally a punch to the side of the head. A pool of darkness opened at his feet and he dived into it — as Chandler might have said.
Kiley worked out of two rooms above a bookshop in Belsize Park, a chancy business with a good address. A little over a year now since Kate had rescued him from the lower depths of Upper Holloway and invited him, lock, stock and baggage, to her flat in Highbury Fields, thus enabling him, most weeks, to pay the quite exorbitant office rent.
‘You do realise,’ he’d said, the first or second evening after supper in her three-storey late-Victorian house, ‘keeping that place going’s not going to leave me much to contribute here.’
‘Contribute?’
‘You know, towards the electricity, gas, the council tax.’
‘We’ll think of something,’ Kate had laughed, and poured the last of the white burgundy into her glass.
In the outer office were a filing cabinet, a computer with printer attached, a Rolodex, a telephone with answering machine and fax. Two mornings a week, Irena, the young Romanian who worked across the street at Cafe Pasta, did his secretarial work, updated his accounts. In Bucharest, she had been a high-school teacher with a good degree; here she fetched and carried through six long shifts, linguine con capesante, penne con salsiccia — black pepper, sir? Parmesan? — bottles of house red.
It had been earlier that month that Irena had mentioned her friend, Adina, for the first time.
‘She wants to meet you.’ Irena blushed. ‘She thinks you are my lover.’
‘I’m flattered.’
Irena was slender as a boy, slim-hipped and small-breasted, with deep brown eyes just a fraction too large and a mouth that was generous and wide. Her hair was cut short, close-cropped, severe enough in strong light for her scalp to show through.
‘I tell her,’ Irena said, ‘of course, it is not true.’
‘Of course.’
‘You are making fun of me.’
‘No, not at all. Well, yes, maybe a little.’
Irena returned his smile. ‘This afternoon, when I finish my shift. She comes then.’
‘Okay.’
What, Kiley wondered, was the Romanian for chalk and cheese? Adina was taller than Irena and more
